The Nursing Home of Your Heartby William Doreski
March 1, 2010
Pages torn from holy texts drift in the strict winter dark. Twelve more snowstorms and spring arrives in a hustle of flowers, like a funeral. You agree that the erudite parts of me will soon expunge themselves, sloughing like the shells of cicadas. You agree that I’ll imitate those apple-cheeked old men who love to tease the young girls who ache like microwave ovens. You even agree that my name will soon be misspelled frequently all over the Internet as men young enough to know better scour for the best free porn sites. Was it you who tore the pages from the holy texts and scattered their miscellany to the wind? All those gods confused as clouds obscure the stars they inhabit. Couldn’t you save a place for them in the nursing home of your heart? I know these senile metaphors disgust you. I know that layers of snow, when they thaw, will expose the bones of cannibal banquets we both attended. You agree that in the dark the pages of scripture and secular texts mate with reckless abandon, and yet new snow will pulp them all in a slush of gray elision.